Ch.401Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

Entering the territory claimed by the local government as “rebel-held” wasn’t easy. Unsettling rumors about an imminent declaration of martial law had the public on edge.

Though the Ministry of Defense hadn’t officially released any statement, the increased number of checkpoints on roads leading to rebel areas lent credibility to the rumors.

However, government checkpoints were hardly obstacles in my path.

“Thank you for your service.”

The soldiers at the checkpoint let my vehicle through with ease. That’s because I’d slipped them cigarettes, beer that tasted like cat piss, and a modest amount of cash.

Having accepted the bribes, the soldiers didn’t conduct proper inspections. They merely glanced over the SUV’s exterior before letting it pass. They even ignored the identity verification that was typically a formality for both locals and foreigners alike. When I handed them my documents, they’d just skim the papers before removing the barricade.

The government’s regulations and controls had long since degraded from obstacles to mere annoying formalities.

Of course, this only applied to those who paid bribes, but at this point, I could feel firsthand just how utterly broken the government forces’ discipline was.

“You may pass.”

I drove the SUV into the territory of the Al-Bas tribe.

Though I’d cleared the checkpoint safely, my mind was far from at ease.

My unease was so apparent that even Camilla, who was still half-asleep in a dreamlike state, asked, “Did something happen today?”

“Are you alright?”

“Why? Do I look strange to you?”

“Yes. Your expression looks like half-chewed eel jelly…”

It was a joke, of course. She knew better than anyone why I was feeling uncomfortable.

The SUV moved forward with a powerful roar from its exhaust.

Around the time smoke from cooking fires would be rising through chimneys, I arrived at the parking lot of the building with the interrogation room—my third visit here.

There, I would meet the main culprit who had been disturbing my peace of mind.

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

I made contact with Farid Al-Bas, the guide assigned by the tribal chief.

“Welcome to the land of the Al-Bas tribe. I am Farid, son of Nayan Al-Bas.”

The man who introduced himself as the son of the Al-Bas tribal chief was a familiar face we knew well.

A local man in his mid-thirties with much fairer skin compared to the dark-complexioned warlord fighters. He possessed a physique several times healthier than many of the locals I’d met so far—he was the successor to Hassan’s warlord executive.

Having studied abroad, he spoke fluent Kiyen. He had attended university in the Republic of Latuan, where Kiyen was commonly used.

I shook hands with him formally and completed our introductions.

“Asud, war correspondent.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Asud. Please, call me Farid.”

After our first meeting, my impression of him couldn’t be described as positive, even as a polite formality.

“From today, I’ll be helping with your coverage. Well, though I probably won’t be much help.”

Even without having to search through the military intelligence database, Farid was easy to assess.

His attire said it all.

He was dressed head to toe in luxury brands. Custom suit, leather shoes, cowhide belt, sunglasses made from buffalo horn, and so on.

As I looked over Farid’s outfit, I recalled what kind of person he was.

A graduate of a private university’s journalism department. Average grades, and a passable attitude in class. He had been part of a sports club but never properly participated in matches. His hobby was shopping—buying things at department stores with his girlfriend.

For reference, he had quite a reputation with women. He had dated two girlfriends in less than a month. He frequently spent money lavishly, often contacting his father toward the end of the month asking for more funds.

In short, Farid was just an idle young man who lived off money sent from home while studying half-heartedly.

I didn’t care how Farid had lived his life. However, his extensive history with women was enough to earn my antipathy.

Perhaps because of that prejudice, or maybe due to his flashy, eccentric fashion sense, I couldn’t help but form a negative impression from the moment I met him.

And that negative impression soon became reality.

“Yaaawn…”

After withdrawing his hand, Farid stretched wide with his mouth agape.

He openly displayed this inappropriate behavior—something one shouldn’t do in front of strangers—right in the face of a guest introduced by his father.

The moment I saw this, I had a realization.

Ah. This guy’s a complete nutcase.

“…”

Though the tribesmen gave him disapproving looks for his rude behavior, Farid didn’t seem to care at all. It seemed the rumors about him being Nayan’s favorite child were true.

This doesn’t feel good. With an ominous feeling creeping up, I immediately brought up business.

“I plan to stay here from today and cover the villages. Where should we start?”

“Villages? Well, whatever. We can start wherever you want to go, reporter.”

His lukewarm response to my question about coverage locations was unenthusiastic.

This was a very bad sign. If the guide accompanying us—essentially the tribe’s representative—was passive about the coverage, it wouldn’t be good for me at all. Neither as a journalist nor as an intelligence officer.

But the bad omen didn’t end there. Farid went on to behave in a way that far exceeded my expectations.

“Well, I’ll be going now. You all discuss things with the reporter here and let me know what you decide.”

“Yes, Mr. Farid.”

Showing little interest in the coverage, he left after telling his subordinates to discuss matters with me. He had seemed fine while talking to me, but for some reason, he frowned upon seeing his tribesmen.

He strode toward the vehicle provided by the warlord, flung the door open, and sprawled across the back seat. Then he started pulling out rolled-up earphones from somewhere.

What kind of jerk is this guy? I was thinking this when—

“…”

I made eye contact with the warlord duo from the interrogation room, who had suddenly become responsible for dealing with a war correspondent.

The tribesmen averted their gaze slightly and gave embarrassed smiles. They seemed used to this kind of situation.

Camilla must have noticed this too, as she cautiously spoke up.

“Things don’t look like they’ll go smoothly.”

“I know.”

I sighed deeply inside.

This operation wasn’t going to be easy.

*

Despite the minor commotion, the coverage proceeded as planned.

We visited nearby villages guided by the Al-Bas tribesmen, represented by the warlord duo.

The first thing I did there was to obtain permission for coverage.

“Hello. I’m Asud, here to cover the village. May I have your permission to do so?”

Barging into a closed rural community with a camera is a serious breach of etiquette. Residents, being people too, are reluctant to have their private lives exposed and dislike their village becoming noisy.

The local residents seemed wary of outsiders, but once the tribesmen explained the situation, they gladly welcomed us as guests.

“Village chief. Permission. Very quick.”

The warlord duo approached after hearing whispers from a tribesman and informed me that permission had been granted. Their awkward Kiyen pronunciation was still difficult to get used to, but I had no problem understanding their meaning.

The areas permitted for coverage were villages near the border (the term locals used for the boundary between government-controlled areas and tribal territories). I had expected it to be difficult to get permission because a government mechanized unit was stationed in the adjacent area, but contrary to my expectations, Nayan had granted permission.

It seemed he wanted to inform foreign countries about the unjust reality they were experiencing through a war correspondent. Although I had only spoken directly with Nayan Al-Bas once, it was easy to guess his intentions.

“I heard government forces are nearby. Is this village relatively safe?”

“Army. Very bad guys. Residents. Anxious. Afraid to sleep.”

The role of the warlord duo accompanying this coverage was interpretation.

When I asked questions in Kiyen, they translated them into the local language for the residents.

“I heard that the army that occupied this village committed serious wrongs against the residents. May I ask what kind of treatment you received?”

I wrote down all the testimonies from the residents in my notebook. The main content of the questions concerned the atrocities committed by government forces in the village—the topic Nayan truly wanted covered.

Though his intentions were transparent, I was happy to grant his wish. My target was the leader of Hassan’s warlord faction, and I needed Nayan’s help to make contact with him.

Of course, I didn’t just conduct interviews that benefited the warlord.

“There’s a mine near the village?”

“Huge mine. Lots of coal. Abundant.”

Through the residents, I identified what facilities existed in Al-Bas tribal territory. These testimonies would serve as intelligence to supplement information that military intelligence had not yet grasped.

“Are you saying the government forces are targeting the coal mine?”

“Yes. Coal mine has much coal buried. Army wants coal. Because electricity is scarce.”

“Don’t they mine magic stones?”

“Magic stones? That’s impossible. The mine dried up long ago and was very dangerous. Even healthy people get sick if they enter. My father died because of it.”

During the coverage, I discovered that some village residents could speak Kiyen.

They weren’t particularly skilled, but they could at least carry on lengthy conversations in Kiyen.

These were mostly elderly people who, as it turned out, had migrated from the Sanya tribe to Hassan’s territory. They testified that occasionally “people in uniforms from the Kiyen Empire” had visited the village when they were young.

Reconnaissance Command? Or special forces? Either way, it doesn’t matter. In the Empire, all special forces are managed by military intelligence agencies.

The scattered elderly Kiyen speakers seemed quite fascinated by the young foreigner who had visited their village. During our conversations, they would sometimes ask if I was from the Empire.

“No, I’m not Kiyen. I’m from Latuan.”

“Latuan? Don’t know it. Where is that country?”

“It’s a country east of the Empire.”

Of course, that was bullshit. I had never even been to Latuan in my life.

But the elders didn’t seem to care much where I was from. Rather, it was the warlord duo—especially the man—who seemed conscious of me.

To be precise, he was watching me carefully.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“…It’s nothing.”

He avoided answering with a slightly embarrassed look. He seemed ashamed of his Kiyen skills, which lagged behind the elders’. While I communicated directly with the elders, bypassing the need for translation, he brought a knife from somewhere and peeled fruit for the elders.

The villagers looked at the foreign visitor with curious eyes.

Most of them had never left the village in their lives, so they clung to the doorways and windows like cicadas to watch the white person during the interview.

One curious thing was that the residents’ interest was focused on me. I wondered why they weren’t interested in Camilla, who was also a foreigner, but I understood the situation when I saw her.

“Hello, kids?”

“Wow. You can speak our language.”

“Of course.”

Camilla was interacting with the village children. When they heard the unfamiliar foreigner speaking fluent local language, the children were thrilled.

We had agreed to abandon the unpleasant magician concept and present a friendly image. Camilla approached the children with a gentle smile and the Papago built into her vocal cords (I still don’t understand how it works). Of course, she had thoroughly prepared according to my advice.

The pointed metal rod protruding from beneath her robe was clearly recognizable as an assault rifle even from a distance. It was a Kiyen Empire assault rifle purchased from Viktor.

In a neighborhood where bolt-action rifles from the World War era were still considered active service weapons, the status of an assault rifle was truly formidable. This was evident from how quickly the villagers kept their distance from the frail foreign woman carrying an assault rifle.

While it was common sense in this neighborhood to avoid people wearing robes, wearing a robe while carrying an assault rifle was the ultimate etiquette enforcer. Camilla, receiving the wariness and fear of the residents, looked every bit like a colonial garrison soldier. If Camilla’s distant ancestors (imperialists) had seen this scene, they might have shed tears.

Of course, kids don’t understand such things. So they approached Camilla with pure curiosity and without any suspicion.

She’s doing well.

At that moment, the warlord duo, who were placing fruit on plates, translated what a villager was muttering.

“Very curious. Residents. White person. First time seeing.”

“I see…”

Well, this is familiar. I experienced similar things while traveling through Africa and the Middle East during my intelligence service days.

Some would ask if I was from Korea, others would mention China or Japan, and some would randomly bring up India, but locals would always look curiously at an Asian who spoke their language fluently. Of course, there were some unfriendly glances too.

For example, when mistaken for Chinese. When I visited areas where Chinese companies had made a mess, I was cursed at by residents who mistook me for Chinese. Some people would pull at their eyes and others would throw things, telling me to go back to my country.

I felt terribly wronged then, but I couldn’t even argue that I wasn’t Chinese because the forged passport I was carrying happened to be Chinese. Because of that experience, I avoided using Chinese passports for a while.

“Thank you for participating in the interview.”

“Rather, thank you for listening. Welcome. Foreigner.”

After visiting several more villages, I found that the local residents were generally welcoming toward me.

This was partly because I was a foreign journalist unrelated to government forces, but also because the accompanying Al-Bas tribesmen had grabbed residents and introduced me favorably.

It seemed that Nayan Al-Bas had issued instructions to actively cooperate with the coverage. Of course, another reason might be that they were working harder to restore the tribe’s dignity after Farid had made a mess and left.

While the tribesmen were busy moving around and making contact with residents, Farid was observing the scenery from a distance.

“…”

Perched on the trunk of the vehicle we had arrived in, he fixed his gaze on the vast desert rather than looking at the village. There was no way to know exactly what he was looking at, but by rough calculation, it seemed he was staring at the horizon.

Is there something over there?

I examined the horizon with binoculars but couldn’t see anything particular.

“What are you looking at?”

“Ah, Camilla.”

“Must be something interesting.”

“No, I was just enjoying the scenery for a moment.”

Camilla, who had approached quietly with her rifle slung over her shoulder, took my binoculars, saying she wanted to look too.

I handed the binoculars to her and went to visit another house with the tribesmen to continue gathering information.

That’s when a problem arose.

While I was busy collecting intelligence about government forces and Hassan’s warlord from village residents, one tribesman came running in breathlessly and shouted at the warlord duo.

The warlord duo, who had been listening to a resident, exchanged words with the tribesman and then looked at me with clearly alarmed expressions.

“What’s the matter?”

“Asud. Well.”

“Did government forces invade?”

The man shook his head.

“Problem. Happened.”

Ah, so what problem happened?

As I was about to ask again out of frustration, the warlord man spoke first.

“Your bodyguard.”

*

There was a problem with Camilla. The moment I heard this, various hypotheses flashed through my mind.

The first thing that came to mind was looting or robbery. The Mauritani continent has always had terrible public safety, but this is a rural area. Being beyond government influence, public order is not properly maintained, and armed robbers are rampant due to shortages caused by consecutive droughts and civil war aftereffects.

Just yesterday, the Kiyen Empire embassy distributed a notice to its citizens warning them to be careful of armed robbers. The notice also included a brief mention of an Empire tourist who was under police protection after being attacked by robbers.

I gathered my notebook and remembered where I had hidden my knife as I headed to the scene.

Robbers would certainly be armed, but unless they had guns, I was confident I could take them down.

So, feeling for my pocket while heading to where Camilla was, I was surprised by what I found.

“…Wait, why are you perfectly fine?”

Camilla looked completely normal when I saw her again.

She blinked her bright eyes at me. The binoculars I had given her were still in her hands, and the assault rifle was fitted snugly to her body, with the strap adjusted.

“What a strange thing to say. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“Ah, no. That’s not what I meant.”

Seeing Camilla so perfectly fine contrary to my expectations, I stammered. Wondering if she had caused some trouble, I looked around, but fortunately, it didn’t seem like she had created any problems.

Rather, someone else appeared to have caused the incident.

Farid, surrounded by tribesmen, was shouting and raising his voice. An older local man in his middle age was yelling at him with veins popping in his neck and hands waving vigorously. Suddenly, Farid turned away as if giving up and left the scene.

What’s going on here?

I asked Camilla what had happened, and quickly understood the situation.

“Oh, he was talking to me.”

Camilla answered as if it was nothing.

He talked to you? When I asked this, she nodded.

At that moment, I thought to myself: This woman-obsessed jerk has finally caused trouble.

“How did he approach you?”

“I was just enjoying the desert view when he came up to me and asked if looking at the desert was fun. When I honestly replied that it wasn’t, he started asking various questions. Where I was from, what my name was.”

“Ah.”

After hearing her explanation, I could understand how the situation had unfolded.

In local tribal culture, unmarried men and women cannot easily converse. There are differences between villages, but in some places, even family members of opposite genders don’t share the same table and eat at separate tables.

That’s why when we first visited this place, we were interrogated by the warlord duo consisting of a man and a woman. Even for foreigners, mixing words with the opposite sex was unfamiliar, so they sent the duo.

Of course, it wasn’t a strictly observed custom. In metropolitan areas, many people just acknowledge that such a culture existed in the past, and even in rural areas, younger men and women are occasionally spotted cautiously conversing away from the eyes of elders. Customs naturally fade over time.

But it seems a passing tribesman witnessed Farid speaking to Camilla. Camilla remembered the situation like this:

“Suddenly, that middle-aged man approached angrily.”

“At you?”

“No, at Farid. His respectful demeanor disappeared, and he suddenly grabbed Farid’s hand, dragged him a few steps away, and started shouting.”

“Do you remember what he said?”

“Something like, ‘How dare you disrespect the tribe’s guest,’ and ‘Have you forgotten that you shouldn’t speak carelessly to the opposite sex?’ That sort of thing.”

It seemed the tribesman had misunderstood Farid’s intentions, thinking he was flirting with Camilla. Given the talk about disrespect and such.

But I still suspected Farid. When I asked Camilla if he might have been hitting on her, she explained that he didn’t seem to be flirting.

“Flirting? He didn’t seem like that. He just asked about where I lived and my name, then said this place was stifling.”

“Stifling?”

“He called it a boring neighborhood.”

It seems he was lamenting his situation. But why would he grab Camilla specifically to complain?

I briefly recalled what kind of person Farid was. I remembered a short piece of intelligence about him visiting a professor after obtaining a journalism degree in college. Was it about wanting to enter graduate school?

Whether he was eager for academics or just wanted to spend more time abroad is unknown, but I recall hearing that his father’s will played a larger role in Farid’s return home.

“Maybe he misses living abroad.”

Of course, whatever the warlord’s youngest son was thinking wasn’t my business.

I approached the tribesman who had argued with Farid and tried to mediate, suggesting there might have been a misunderstanding.

This incident wouldn’t likely sour relations with Nayan Al-Bas, but I needed to prevent any awkward atmosphere from forming. Of course, I was also prepared to push hard by claiming I felt insulted by this incident if necessary. Opportunity and crisis are often separated by a fine line.

After the situation was resolved, we got back into our vehicles and moved to another area. Although the atmosphere had become somber due to Farid’s incident, we were able to prevent further problems by using separate vehicles.

But a problem arose elsewhere.

“…We can’t go there?”

I pointed at the map on the hood and asked the warlord duo again.

“This village. You’re saying we can’t go here? Did I hear correctly?”

“Correct. We. Cannot go. This place. Very dangerous. Might die.”

The warlord duo answered with unusually clear pronunciation. Their voice, enunciating each syllable distinctly, carried a hint of anxiety.

I checked the map in disbelief. The village I had pointed to was the closest to the border.

Although I had gathered much information from the villages we visited today, this final destination was the core of this information gathering. That’s because a government force outpost was near the village.

The government force unit is a threatening presence that the Al-Bas tribal chief described as “a blade hanging over our necks.” From the Abas army’s perspective, it’s just a tiny mechanized unit, but these seemingly insignificant forces could potentially overturn the overall flow of this operation.

The government outpost is quite far from the village, but on a clear day, the outpost is visible from the village with the naked eye. This means that with the high-performance magic recording device disguised as broadcasting equipment, I could capture specific information about the facility’s layout, equipment, and the size of the unit.

And according to the local weather forecast, the only good weather days this week were today and tomorrow.

If I missed this opportunity, I’d have to twiddle my thumbs for over two weeks.

“No. Didn’t Chief Nayan originally give permission to cover this area? How can you suddenly change your word?”

I pushed as strongly as possible, even invoking Nayan Al-Bas’s authority. In a dictatorship-leaning warlord structure, it’s difficult to go against a superior’s orders.

However, the tribesmen didn’t budge. They adamantly refused to guide us to that village.

“Absolutely not.”

Even the warlord duo clearly expressed their opposition.

“…”

Frustrated, I looked around the desert.

Camilla, concerned about dehydration, brought out bottled water. After gulping down water and thoroughly soaking my headscarf, I asked the tribesmen:

“What exactly is the reason we can’t go there? Huh? You should at least tell me the reason.”

Then a response came from somewhere. It wasn’t from the warlord duo or the tribesmen.

“Monster.”

Farid poked his head out from the warlord’s vehicle.

“There’s a monster living there.”